Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

you? Permit me to remind you that Mrs. Montgomery, senior, gave a blanket for you when you were little.”

“I know she did,” replied the prince, with just a suspicion of vainglory. “Nobody would be fool enough to give a blanket for you when you was little. Soolim!”

“Come on, Moriarty,” said I, rising; “I must take a bit off the near end of my journey tonight.”

“Howld your howlt, chaps,” interposed the good-natured half-caste “I’ll run up your horses for you. I was on’y takin’ a rise out o’ Mr. Mori⁠—(adj.)⁠—arty, Esquire; jist to learn him not to be quite so suddent.” And in another minute, he was striding down the paddock, with his bridle and stockwhip.

Half an hour later, my horses were equipped; and, all the Levites being absent, four or five tribesmen slowly collected under Pawsome’s shed, waiting to see what would happen. Cleopatra was not without reputation.

“Tell you what you better do,” said Moriarty to me⁠—“better hang your socks on Nosey Alf’s crook tonight. His place is fifteen mile from here, and very little out of your way. Ill-natured, cranky beggar, Alf is⁠—been on the pea⁠—but there’s no end of grass in his paddock. And I say⁠—get him to give you a tune or two on his fiddle. Something splendid I believe. He’s always getting music by post from Sydney. Montgomery had heard him sing and play, some time or other; and when old Mooney was here, just before last shearing, he sent Toby to tell Alf to come to the house in the evening, and bring his fiddle; and Alf came, very much against his grain. Young Mooney was asked into the house, on account of his dad being there; and he swears he never heard anything like Alf’s style; though the stubborn devil wouldn’t sing a word; nothing but play. And he was just as good on the piano as on the fiddle, though his hand must have been badly out. Mooney thinks he jibbed on singing because the women were there. Alf’s a mis-mis-mis-dash it⁠—”

“Mischief-maker?” I suggested.

“No.⁠—mis⁠—mis⁠—”

“Mysterious character?”

“No, no.⁠—mis⁠—mis⁠—”

“Try a synonym.”

“Is that it? I think it is. Well Alf’s a misasynonym⁠—womanhater⁠—among other things. When he comes to the station, he dodges the women like a criminal. And the unsociable dog begged of Montgomery not to ask him to perform again. One night, Nelson was going past his place, and heard a concert going on, so he left his horse, and sneaked up to the wall; but the music suddenly stopped, and before Nelson knew, Nosey’s dog had the seat out of his pants. Nosey came out and apologised for the dog, and brought Nelson in to have some supper; and Nelson stayed till about twelve; but devil a squeak of the fiddle, or a line of a song, could he get out of Alf. But, as the boss says, Alf’s only mad enough to know the difference between an eagle-hawk and a saw⁠—foolish expression, it seems to me. Best boundary man on the station, Alf is. Been in the Round Swamp Paddock five years now; and he’s likely a fixture for life. Boundary riding for some years in the Bland country before he came here. Now I’ll show you how you’ll fetch his place⁠—” Moriarty began drawing a diagram on the ground with a stick⁠—“You go through the Red Gate⁠—we’ll call this the gate. The track branches there; and you follow this branch. It’s the Nalrooka track; and it takes you along here⁠—mind, you’re going due east now⁠—”

“Wait, Moriarty,” I interrupted⁠—“don’t you see that you’re reversing everything? A man would have to stand on his head to understand that map. There is the north, and here is the south.”

“Don’t matter a beggar which is the real north and south. I’m showing you the way you’ve got to go. We’ll start afresh to please you. Through here⁠—along here⁠—and follow the same line from end to end of the pine-ridge, with the fence on your right all the way⁠—”

“Hold on, hold on,” I again interrupted⁠—“you’re at right angles now. Don’t you see that your line’s north and south?⁠—and did you ever see a pine-ridge running north and south? Begin again. Say the Red Gate is here; and I turn along here. Now go ahead.”

“No, I’m dashed if I do! I’m no hand at directing; but, by gosh, you’re all there at understanding.”

“Jack,” said I, turning to the primeval t’other-sider⁠—“can you direct me to Nosey Alf’s?”

“I’ll try,” replied the veteran; and he slowly drew a diagram, true to the points of the compass. “ ’Ere’s the Red Gate⁠—mind you shet it⁠—then along ’ere, arf a mile. Through this gate⁠—an’ mind ’ow you leave ’er, f’r the wire hinclines to slip hover. Then straight along ’ere, through the pine-ridge, f’m hend to hend. You’re hon the Nalrookar track, mind, t’ wot time you see a gate hin the fence as you’re a-kerryin’ hon yer right shoulder. Gate’s sebm mile f’m ’ere. Nalrookar track goes through that gate; b’t neb’ you mind; you keep straight ahead pas’ the gate, hon a pad you’ll ’ar’ly see; han jist hat the fur hend o’ the pine-ridge you’ll strike hanuther gate; an’ you mus’ be very p’tic’lar shettin’ ’er. Then take a hangle o’ fo’ty-five, with the pine-ridge hon yer back; an’ hin fo’ mile you’ll strike yer las’ gate⁠—’ere, hin the co’ner. Take this fence hon yer right shoulder, an’ run ’er down. B’t you’ll spot Half’s place, fur ahead, w’en you git to the gate, ef it ain’t night.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I replied, and then imprudently continued⁠—“It would suit some of these young pups to take a lesson from you.”

“You hain’t fur wrong,” replied the good old chronicle, that had so long walked hand in hand with Time. “Las’ year, hit war hall the cry, ‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt o’ Cunnigarn’s mongreals!’⁠—‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt o’ Thompson’s mongreals!’⁠—‘We’ll make hit ’ot f’r ’em!’ Han wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy!’ ses Hi⁠—‘w’e’s y’ proofs?’ ‘Proof be dam!’ ses they⁠—‘don’t we